


Parallel Lines:  Yes

by Ruth_Devero



Series: Parallel Lines [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-30
Updated: 2010-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:38:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes what makes the difference is a word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallel Lines:  Yes

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of two stories with different storylines, branching when Tom Paris makes a decision after Caldik Prime. Passages in bold are shared by both stories; in the original format, the two stories parallel each other on the screen.

**Sometimes what makes the difference is a word.**

“Yes,” he said. “I was—I couldn’t do anything. It was all falling apart. I couldn’t— It was me. It was my fault.”

**Struck suddenly with terror at what he had just said.**

Because it didn’t seem to matter that it was the truth. They were gentle—everyone was so gentle around him. Doctors. And then counselors. His parents. All so fucking gentle, and he had killed three people; he was responsible for the deaths of three people—people who’d cried out in terror as the shuttle did its terrible cartwheel, shedding bits of itself across the field at Caldik Prime—and everybody was acting like Tom Paris was a victim, when, really, he was a murderer.

The worst was his mother, who seemed to treat it as some sort of accident, something that couldn’t have been avoided; who just kept saying over and over, “You’re alive. That’s the important thing. Oh, Tom, you’re alive”—like that was something to be proud of.

Except the worst were the counselors, who listened to the details and then listened to them again and then listened to them again; and then questioned him; and then unfolded for him an exquisite proof that he was somehow not to blame.

But the worst was his father, who acted like shuttles crashed for reasons other than inept piloting; who embraced him and spoke of other pilots and other crashes—but whose eyes held disappointment.

Still, the worst was the review board, who listened to the details and then listened to them again and then listened to them again; and then questioned him; and then drew charts and graphs and maps; and then explained in exquisite detail that he was not at fault.

Worst of all were some of his senior officers, who couldn’t seem to hear enough about the crash and made him repeat the details and ran him through simulations and steered him through the maze of what he was could learn—which mostly was that shuttle crashes weren’t always the pilot’s fault.

“Yes,” he kept saying; “yeah. I see that. You’re right.” Which seemed to satisfy them. But not his fault didn’t mean not a murderer. Three people dead, and Tom at the helm, and three dead.

Oddly enough, the ones who got it were some of the other lieutenants, who generally treated him like he was Death at the banquet: be polite, but don’t make eye contact. They backed off and let him alone; and once he proved that time-differential trigonomics didn’t kill just because he’d done the formulas, or that advanced Klingon law wasn’t lethal because he remembered the cases, they moved back to being friendly and competitive. But there was an edge of mistrust.

And things moved on; and he moved on to another assignment; and he saw a counselor once in a while. He broke the back of some of the toughest flight simulations. And he flew. And things were okay.

Really okay when he found a good club and could drink and dance and drink and drink with people who’d never heard of him or of Caldik Prime.

Really the best when he could get a little tight and then get a lot loose in an alley somewhere, with some guy’s cock up his ass or down his throat.

Two guys was better.

Male, female, something of both—didn’t matter. Alley or bed. He would fuck or he would suck, and he would dance, and he would feel hands on him and arms around him, he would loosen in the heat of bodies crushed against him, hear music and moans, smell sweat and musk, be filled, be bruised by passion or by a well-placed fist—and, shit, it was so good, it felt so fucking good, because he was alive and strong and young; and the alcohol and the music or the alcohol and the fucking would fuse in a white-hot, ecstatic instant that burned out any doubts, like some exquisite proof by the universe that even murder could be forgiven. And he would coast on that for a few days, until the shadows gathered again.

Of course, when his counselor found out, there were sessions and recriminations and sessions and those drugs that took the edge off everything. And more sessions.

But they didn’t kick him out, because he was one of their own, a Starfleet baby; and besides, he was about the best fucking pilot in the Fleet; and his counselor pointed out that for Tom piloting wasn’t just a skill, it was woven into who he was. He needed it, like he needed food or air.

So he stayed on, stayed sober, stayed chaste—well, mostly. A few sweet interludes with a mixed bag of homesick ensigns and between-assignment officers. T’el, who started losing it and tried to control Tom since he couldn’t control anything else. It got boring even as rough sex; and Tom dropped some hints, and the counselors found T’el.

Things moved on. Once or twice he lost himself in the clubs. Time and counseling dulled the razor-sharp edge of knowing that he was a murderer. His piloting skills became the stuff of legend. In his heart he nurtured the strong and certain knowledge that he was damaged goods.

Captain Kathryn Janeway. Petite no-nonsense sizing him up. Considering him. _Hesitating_. He felt a prickle of annoyance that she’d even stop to think about adding him to her crew, that she’d have to stand there and figure the fucking odds before welcoming him onto _Voyager_. Best damn pilot in the Alpha Quadrant, and he could see the damn calculations going on behind her smile.

So he showed her. Showed everyone. Put _Voyager_ through paces that even the ones who dreamed her up hadn’t imagined. Sweet ship who knew her master the minute he touched the conn. By the time they’d reached Deep Space 9, the calculations in Janeway’s eyes had reached a solution.

And the Badlands—well, no Federation ship had flown through them, but that didn’t mean _Voyager_ couldn’t. In Tom’s mind he’d done it a hundred times. It was great. He saved them; he saved them all, a miracle speeding silently through the vortexes and the sensor-blanking plasma storms, weaving a net of phaser fire and justice. Piloting the sweet ship he’d fallen in love with through the worst place in the galaxy—nothing could be better.

Better went worst faster than light speed, on the crest of a tetrion wave that for 6.734 seconds he was handling, that for 6.734 triumphant seconds the ship was surfing the way he’d surf an ocean wave.

**But.**

But then his sweet ship torqued her way right out of his hands; and then it was smoke and blood and the sourness of failure. Though he managed to shut down the conn before it completely overloaded and blew. But not everybody was that fast or that fortunate. Screaming and blood and the fucking ceiling falling in. Quick flashes of Caldik Prime.

 _Not your fault_. In his mind he heard his counsellor saying just those words. _Not your_ — Heard his mother. Heard the review board. — _fault_. _Not your fault_. Heard it as he swore his way through shutdown of nonessential systems, through the cataloguing of malfunctions—his sweet ship gone haywire, her synapses frying. Through the realization that they were now in the unknown Delta Quadrant. — _your fault_.

Through the shouting on the bridge and all the rest of it. Janeway, her hair down and her chin up, glaring and snapping out orders. She caught his eye for a nanosecond of approval and respect and regret that pierced him to the soul. Muted the voices to a bare whisper. Starfleet captains. Shit—he’d die for her.

But the voices hadn’t actually gone away: they were there all through what happened next, through a surreal hoedown on an illusory farm, through the cold terror of a Frankenstein laboratory where he was tested and again found wanting, through the chaos of waking out of a mad dream. — _your fault_. With Ensign Kim gone, and, sure, Tom really didn’t know him—hadn’t even really talked to him, just sized him up as a bed partner: cute, but scared and too innocent, and probably not that good in bed—but he’d been on the bridge, at his post, rattling off sensor readings all during that horrible ride. — _your_ _fault_. And they’d lost so many crew members already; so Tom was hot to find him.

**Found more than just Harry Kim.**

Found one hell of a hotstick-looking bastard of a Maquis captain. — _your_ — Chakotay—that was his name. With a major chip on his shoulder—no wonder, given that one of his crew turned out to be a spy. But, intense and fucking amazing-looking.

And not all that very grateful when he broke his leg escaping the Ocampan homeworld and Tom went back for him.

“Get out of here, Paris,” he snarled as Tom started down the creaking, swaying metal staircase, “before the whole thing comes down.”

Shit. You’d think a guy hanging on for dear life to a stairway about to drop into an abyss would be less mouthy. “I intend to. Just as soon as I get you up.”

He could pretty much hear the exasperated snort Chakotay probably thought.

“Besides,” he added lightly, “if I save your ass, your life belongs to me. That’s an old Indian custom, right?”

He did hear the snort now. “Wrong tribe.”

“Had to try.” He was within reach now, could see those those bright, untrusting dark eyes. Stubborn sonofabitch.

“I thought,” Tom said breathlessly, hauling, trying not to hear the groaning of the metal staircase about to collapse, “you guys had some way of—” He heaved. “—turning yourself into some sort of—” _Fuck_ , he was heavy. “—bird and flying us both away.”

“You’re too heavy.” Said with a surprising amount of humor, given the circumstances.

The bit of metal tread Chakotay had been clutching fell as Tom hauled him up: _clang_ , _clangalang_. The ringing muted as the metal disappeared into the void. — _your fault_.

All that long struggle up the groaning staircase—everything swaying, falling apart—hauling Chakotay on his back, that other heart beating hard against him, little hisses in his ear when the pain from the broken leg became too much to bear. All that long way, Chakotay kept it up, insult for insult, smart-ass remark for smart-ass observation.

Through the sheer terror of what was happening, Tom felt an unexpected rush: anticipation. Fucking erotic anticipation. The voices in his head silenced.

**And then, sweetest of all sights: Janeway reaching out to pull them to safety as the nightmare staircase fell away into the abyss.**

Back on _Voyager_ , the stubborn sonofabitch wasn’t much more grateful, glaring mistrustfully at everyone while the holographic doctor worked on his leg. Well, not so suspiciously at Tom. More speculatively, as in _How much can I trust you? Why did you rescue me?_ Then, “Thanks,” Chakotay said shortly to him.

 _Shiiiit_ —from him, that was tantamount to foreplay. “Any time,” Tom said.

Of course, the fucking Kazon had to ruin everything by attacking them, the Maquis ship, the Array that could send them all back to the Alpha Quadrant—every damn target in the area. Chakotay and his crew were simply amazing: dart in, sling phaser fire, dart out. Damn beautiful.

Damn disheartening when the biggest fucking Kazon ship in the Delta Quadrant arrived to join the fight.

And then that stubborn ass transported his crew to _Voyager_ and rode his own disabled ship straight for the enemy ship.

Tom snatched him out of it just as the Maquis ship found its target.

“Two,” he mouthed to Chakotay when he saw him next; and under the frazzled and the frustrated and the fed up, Chakotay looked amused.

“Thanks,” he said. He looked for a minute longer than usual, as if looking past the uniform to the man underneath.

Tom felt the rush again. “Any time.”

Of course, that wasn’t the end of it, and that didn’t save them. Didn’t get them back to the Alpha Quadrant. The Array had to be destroyed, and they had to do it—doom themselves to a life in the Delta Quadrant. That just dropped the bottom out of everything. — _your fault_.

Glancing back at Chakotay—new First Officer of _Voyager_ —trim in his new uniform, solid at his new command post on the bridge, Tom Paris heard the voices fade.

**And on a seventy-five-year trip home, who knows what can happen?**

Still a damned stubbornuntrustingsonofabitch. But even sexier in command. The uniform suited him.

Or maybe it was the anger. There was a lot of it, damped down. Maybe nobody else even saw it. But Tom knew anger. He knew that glow it gave a man: it drew him like no other erotic power on earth.

So he started the seduction.

****

Not that Chakotay noticed right away. Things on the ship were just too complicated. Morale was pretty much nonexistant, despite the efforts of Neelix, who cooked and sang and just generally made himself a well-meaning annoyance. The two crews didn’t mesh well; the two commanders had to find their feet. That both sides had been trying to kill each other made it difficult to trust. Sometimes it seemed they had not one damn thing in common.

Except _Voyager_. She was their center. She was home; she was shielding mother; she was needy child. Focusing on her, they lost their focus on the past. Ministering to her, they helped each other. Learning to trust her, they began to trust each other.

But Tom kept getting those flashes. Something—maybe the tension on the ship, maybe the desperation of never getting home—layered the old shadows over everything. — _your fault_. At the back of his mind, the crew members killed when they were flung into the Delta Quadrant— _your fault_ —joined the three from Caldik Prime.

 _Not your fault_ , he reminded himself piously, as his counsellors had advised him. But his skin started to twitch.

Among the crew, things started to ease. Jokes broke out in the mess. That half-Klingon woman—Torres, Chakotay’s engineer—teased Harry Kim unmercifully, and Tom watched Harry fall hard for her. It was sweet, but she was a little standoffish—holding back in favor of somebody else, maybe. Chakotay maybe, who had that pretty Bajoran after him. He was polite, but uninterested: maybe distancing himself from the old Maquis days, now that he had to be Starfleet. She didn’t seem to like that much.

Tom moved through this complicated mix in his own little pocket of reality. All he really wanted was a good, hard fuck, but there didn’t seem to be any possibles but Chakotay. By comparison, everybody else seemed washed out, pathetic. But, Chakotay: _mmmmmmmmm_. Not really that big, but—damn—he seemed massive. Blunt fingers on strong hands, lush mouth quirking with humor, eyes sparking impatience.

Especially when Tom gave him a little extra lip. There was an art to doing that: keep ’em off guard, but don’t let it tip over into fury—well, not until you were alone. So Chakotay got the obedient lieutenant, with glimpses of the smart-ass bed partner. Tom watched him warm to both.

Then, one day, he caught Chakotay in his office, gave him his best smile—half shyness, half fuck-me—and said, “I—uh— Supper? In my quarters? Tonight? I’ve saved up replicator credits.” The nervousness he let show in his face wasn’t wholly put on.

Chakotay looked startled. “Ah—” he said. “Uh—” Tom watched some quick calculations cross his face; most of them probably had to do with rank and the growing camaraderie between the two crews and, maybe, in there someplace, whether or not Chakotay actually _wanted_ to.

“That’d be— I’d really enjoy that, Tom.” Mygod: he was _blushing_. A genuine smile lighted his face. “Can I bring anything? Dessert?”

“Just you,” Tom said, with the quick, sly grin that implied that maybe the dessert would be Chakotay; and he saw Chakotay flush again, and grin back.

So, oh yeah, supper in Tom’s quarters, and the hard fuck he needed; though something made him uneasy all that afternoon. Something about that smile, so genuinely pleased that Tom had invited him. Surely Chakotay knew this wasn’t romance. Tom was just five-minute joyride. Surely Chakotay knew that.

Maybe, maybe not. The commander enjoying a good supper was funny and a good conversationalist. The commander enjoying a not-bad Romulan brandy was positively flirtatious. Tom felt the heat rise in the room, and when the energy between them had just about peaked, he set down his glass, moved in, and pressed his mouth to Chakotay’s.

There wasn’t even that little startled, not-expecting- _this_ second of somebody pretending to themselves that they were really there for the food. Chakotay’s mouth met his with an intensity that was staggering; and then Chakotay must have set down his own glass, because both hands were at the back of Tom’s head, cradling it, holding it tight so Chakotay could plunder Tom’s mouth with his tongue. It was— Tom felt himself getting dizzy.

When they broke the kiss, he had a moment when he couldn’t think what was supposed to happen next. He didn’t actually kiss much: the usual quickie didn’t exactly require it. In that moment, Chakotay was on him again, fervent, tender. It was like a slow ravishment, and terror flashed through him. This didn’t seem like the usual suck and fuck, and he was pretty damn sure he wasn’t in the mood for it. But it was already too late: his cock was swelling quite happily, and finding an answering hardness to rub against, and that portion of his brain that made really good decisions for him wasn’t taking any hails.

Clothes scattered across the floor and Chakotay’s hard body on top of his on the bed, Tom tried again to take control, to get Chakotay going, to take that clean, hard, uncomplicated fuck that burned out all the shadows. But Chakotay wasn’t playing.

Not that he didn’t understand what Tom wanted. A minute or two of rough play, and Tom saw understanding dawn in his eyes.

And then the stubborn sonofabitch just peeled himself off of him. Pulled back, with his hands gentle around Tom’s wrists. Even though that magnificent cock was so hard it was weeping. Didn’t seem angry, just seemed hurt.

“I don’t do that.” The words were crisp and final. Then the eyes dulled a little. “Is that what you think? I’m some sort of Maquis mauler? Some sort of rapist?”

Damn; he was going to leave; Tom could see the signs.

“It’s what I like!” he said desperately.

Chakotay looked down at him, looked straight into his eyes for what seemed a very long time.

Then, “No, you don’t,” he said firmly.

And then he was on him.

That slow, thorough ravishment began again. Chakotay’s strong hands all over him, except for his cock and his balls, and, oh, they really wanted it. Chakotay’s hot mouth all over him, except for his balls and his cock, and oh _damn_ , they wanted it.

“Ohmygod, fuck me—just _fuck_ me,” Tom found himself moaning; and Chakotay’s laugh was rough.

“No,” he said; and he captured Tom’s hands when they tried to finish things. Pinned them above Tom’s head. Knelt to one side, so there was no way to rub himself off against the hot belly. Just stopped things for an eternal minute. Tom felt Chakotay’s free hand brush against his cheek, soul-searingly gentle.

“Look at me.” Chakotay’s voice was soft, uncommanding.

But Tom obeyed. Damn—the man was just luscious. Flushed skin shining with sweat, mouth swollen from kissing. Dark eyes half frustrated, half tender. The eyes held him mesmerized; he couldn’t seem to look away. Had anyone ever before looked at him like that?

Time froze for a long, aching minute.

Then Chakotay was on him again. In control, taking no nonsense. Their sweat-slick bellies slid against each other; their hot cocks brushed, brushed, brushed. Chakotay’s hands were gentle on his body; his gaze was tender and joyous.

Tom couldn’t look away. His flailing hands found Chakotay’s tiny ass; his heels dug into the mattress; he thrust, he thrust, mesmerized.

And saw the instant of Chakotay’s orgasm, saw the joy flush with wonder. Felt his own body take fire an instant later, Chakotay’s face unfocusing as Tom rode the sweet heat for what seemed an eternity.

Everything blanked out for a moment. He dimly felt Chakotay’s body slip to one side, one leg holding him in place, one hand drifting along his jaw. Before he realized what he was doing, he touched the hand, caught the fingers, kissed them.

A minute where he felt completely drained, completely at ease.

He turned his head and looked at Chakotay. There was that damned tenderness again, and a little sadness. Tom couldn’t seem to look away.

“I’d like to stay,” Chakotay said softly.

This was the time to get him out of here, to regroup, to rebuild the defenses Chakotay had just dented. Getting the guy out let you shower, change the sheets, put the fucking into fucking perspective. Best to get the stubbornsweet dewy-eyed bastard out of here right now.

**“Okay,” Paris heard himself say.**

Of course, he mentally kicked himself all the next day, because the rest of that night wasn’t at all what he needed. Oh, Chakotay sucked him and Chakotay fucked him; but it didn’t have the raw drive he needed so he could completely lose himself. Didn’t have the impersonal edge that let him forget he even existed.

This was— Well, it was Chakotay giving him pleasure. Chakotay’s hands all over him, Chakotay’s mouth avid on his cock. Chakotay exploring him, learning what he liked, using the knowledge to guide him to orgasm. Damn earth-shaking orgasms, but not the warp-core obliteration Tom needed, because every one of those orgasms was built around Chakotay, based on the musk of his skin, on the touch of those deft fingers, on the rough voice growling words and half words as Chakotay lost himself in pleasure. This wasn’t what he’d wanted: the exhiliration built on those whispers of “Tom, Tom, _Tom_ ,” as he was ridden, on the taste of those blunt fingers he mouthed as Chakotay sucked his cock. He didn’t want that anchor to someone honorable enough not to despise him. It felt better to just kick free into oblivion.

He avoided Chakotay for the next few days—tried not to make it obvious. But it was tougher than he’d expected, not because they couldn’t avoid each other on the bridge, but because for some reason they kept meeting everywhere else. Always unexpected: Chakotay looked startled almost every time. Looked good, too, which Tom hadn’t anticipated: usually, the guys who fucked him were pretty stomach-turning the next day.

What was also unexpected was that Chakotay seemed to be leaving it up to him whether or not they did it again. Oh, he invited Tom to eat with him. Lunch. In the mess hall. But he didn’t act the way guys usually acted after they’d slept with Tom—possessive or needy or distant; he just acted like they were good friends.

So it was Tom who had to make the next move. “I’ve got a couple hours coming to me on the holodeck,” he said over some interrupted paperwork. “You want to come?”

His face heated the instant he realized that a double entendre had left his mouth, but Chakotay just blinked and then said, “Sure!” Happily.

For some reason, Tom’s stomach was flip-flopping as he showed Chakotay into the holodeck. Like it mattered if Chakotay liked the program or not.

“It’s a little bar I used to spend way too much time in,” Tom said. “Kind of … shitty.” Suddenly it struck him that the bar wasn’t good enough for Chakotay. “We could run something else.”

“I like it,” said Chakotay. “Feels like home.”

Now _that_ had never occured to Tom: that Chakotay had ever been inside a place like _this_.

“Met one of my old crew members in a place like this,” Chakotay went on. “I was getting the shit kicked out of me by a guy with just no sense of humor.”

He went over, tested the pool table. “You play?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Paris the Hustler of Marseilles.

He didn’t have to try very hard to lose to Chakotay. And it worked: after the game, when Tom caught his eye and said, “Ever play strip pool?” Chakotay grinned lasciviously.

“Not in this quadrant.”

“We could….” Tom murmured.

Chakotay looked around. “Got a room upstairs?” he said. “I like it private. With a bed nearby.” He grinned. “So I can enjoy my winnings.”

The great thing about holoprograms is they’re so easy to adapt. Cheesy pool room up the creaky stairs, with a cheap, squeaky bed and a door that didn’t lock.

“The rules _I_ play by,” Chakotay breathed in Tom’s ear before they started, “you foul, you lose a piece of clothing. You _scratch_ , and I win it all.”

Seemed fair, though for some reason Tom kept fouling a lot; and my _god_ , wouldn’t Freud have loved this game. Balls and long hard sticks to fondle and deep pockets for things to disappear into; and once Tom started losing, Chakotay teasing his pool cue up the inside of Tom’s leg, “for luck.” Damn good run of luck it gave him, too.

The sounds from downstairs, the occasional creaking as someone passed the unlocked door, Chakotay’s appreciative gaze as Tom shed piece after piece of clothing, the sight of the rough sheets on the bed…. When Tom finally shed his underwear, he was hard as the pool cue and dizzy with anticipation.

“Now?” he breathed.

Chakotay’s grin was mischievous. “That was for your clothes,” he said. “ _Now_ is for your virtue.”

Tom scratched immediately.

And, oh, damn, it was even better than he’d bargained for: the bed’s frenzied squeaking; laughter just outside and someone saying, “Must be collecting his winnings;” Chakotay’s sweat tangy in his mouth; that erotic smell of musk and warm Chakotay; the free-fall sensation of giving himself to the man grunting, “ _Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom_ ,” as he thrust, as he thrust, as he thrust.

And at last, surrendering to the heat and the rush of Chakotay’s orgasm, as aware of it as he was of his own.

He felt their hearts thumping against each other, heard them slowing.

“Ow,” Chakotay said politely.

Huh? Oh. Tom let go of Chakotay’s hair. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m just glad it’s too short for you get a really _good_ grip.” Chakotay was easing off him.

While they were trying to fit themselves on the cruddy little mattress, the bed collapsed underneath them.

“Are you okay?” Chakotay was laughing. “You _programmed_ that, didn’t you?”

“ _No_.” Tom was laughing harder than he had in weeks.

“We don’t have to pay for this thing, do we?” Chakotay asked in mock anxiety.

Though, shit, they barely had time enough to program a quick shower before Tom’s time was up. Watching the water sluice over the hard body next to him, Tom started to plan out another program. Water had so _many_ possibilities.

A few days went by before they had a chance to get together in private. But Tom could tell it wasn’t because Chakotay wasn’t interested. On the contrary: the warmth in the dark eyes, the incipient smile when he saw Tom.

It was terrifying. Because it was fragile; once Chakotay remembered that Tom was such a fucking screwup, he’d drop him like the loser he was. And, really, Tom fucking didn’t need this. All he needed was sex, and even mediocre sex with Harry Kim would do. Just sex. He didn’t need Chakotay.

Trouble was, when he went to Chakotay’s quarters to explain this, five minutes after the explanation was done, he was on his belly, moaning, “Harder, _harder!_ ” Didn’t get out until morning.

The next explanation a couple days later went pretty much the same way.

He tried to stay away, to distract himself with people on both crews—those Delaney sisters, wow! and, _twins!_ —but he got restless fast—sometimes even before he got to the actual payoff.

He knew Chakotay was watching him. Not jealous, not disappointed. Just … observing.

And maybe it was the knowlege or maybe it was the restlessness, but inevitably Tom found himself outside Chakotay’s quarters and then found himself in Chakotay’s arms. They didn’t always fuck. But either way he listened for the brush-off.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself murmur one of those nights.

“It’s … your choice.” But Chakotay’s hands were shaking.

Damn. “I—” He pulled away, looked into the strained face. _I don’t know what I’m doing_ , he wanted to say. _I don’t understand any of this. Maybe I’m losing my mind_. Just what you wanted to hear from the guy at the helm of the great big ship. “I—” he said again. Then, “I killed some people.” Chakotay was watching him. “On Caldik Prime.” Just watching him. “Three people.”

Pause.

“I know,” said Chakotay.

Tom waited for the damned sympathy or the pious condescending explanation that it hadn’t been his fault.

He didn’t get it.

“It was an accident!” he finally said, with heat. “I didn’t mean it! it just happened!”

“You were responsible,” Chakotay said. “You were at the helm.”

That was like a punch to the heart, a clean blow that took the wind right out of you.

He sat there and struggled for breath, because he really should be leaving now—why on earth would he stay around some guy who didn’t even realize it wasn’t his fault?—but he couldn’t move. It was the first time he’d been in the presence of somebody who didn’t try to forgive him or analyze him or pity him. It was the first time he’d been in the presence of somebody who knew just what was what.

Chakotay was still looking at him, tenderly, evenly. “What do you want?” he asked quietly. “You want my sympathy? You want my forgiveness? What?” He leaned close. “You want me to tell you you’re not responsible? You are. You were at the helm. It happened. Because the laws of physics— Well, they don’t bend around _you_ , Tom Paris. I’ve read the reports. All of them. What happened was inevitable. You did the best you could. But it wasn’t enough. They died anyway. And all the sympathy in the universe isn’t going to take _that_ away from you.”

Tom stared at him. There was something— He couldn’t breathe. And— Everything was a little blurry— He rubbed at his eyes, stared at his shaking hand when it came away wet.

He struggled for breath. “I … I didn’t want it to—” Agony twisted inside him. “I didn’t want it to happen.” Which was a really stupid thing to say—who _would_ want it to happen?—and really wasn’t what he wanted to say, anyway. But that was what he choked out. He covered his eyes.

And found himself in Chakotay’s embrace, sobbing like a two-year-old in Chakotay’s arms. There were a couple minutes when he couldn’t get a handle on it, couldn’t seem to stop. And then, even after he did, after the tears were just sniffling, he was still in Chakotay’s arms, still being warmed by the big, sweet body. He relaxed into that warmth.

“You are the most half-assed crier I’ve ever met,” Chakotay said fondly, reaching for something, handing him tissue.

Tom laughed damply and blew his nose. Laughed again. “I try not to practice.” He blew his nose again. “I look like shit.”

A shaky breath. “You always look just fine to me,” Chakotay said huskily; and when Tom looked shyly at him, he seemed to mean it, which was embarrassing. Tom didn’t know where to look. He wiped his damp nose.

Chakotay drew him close again. Tom put his head on Chakotay’s shoulder and relaxed. A long moment went by.

“I don’t know _what_ we’re going to do,” Chakotay said quietly. It sounded rhetorical.

Whatever he was talking about, it didn’t involve letting go of Tom, so it wasn’t important. He felt himself letting go, released his hold, anchored by those arms. The sense of that warm safety followed him into sleep.

It wasn’t long after that that they became An Item. Not that they were obvious about the fact that they were fucking on a regular schedule. Just that people noticed things, and on a ship like this, seventy thousand light years from home, people gossiped seventy times as much. Some of the Federation crew were titillated and maybe a little shocked: the admiral’s son sleeping with the enemy. But most of them took it pretty well. Some of the Maquis crew were a little suspicious; but eventually they took it for granted. That Bajoran woman didn’t—Seska, that was her name. Sheesh—the fury that rolled off of her when she saw Tom. And Torres: it took her a little while to warm back up.

Then stuff started to happen. This, that. Things gone missing: a replicator, a phaser or two.

A murder. When the murderer turned out to be Lon Suder, for some reason everybody relaxed a little about the other stuff, like he was to blame for that, too, though it didn’t make any sense. The stuff was still missing.

Chakotay got that strained look, like it was all his fault: Suder was, after all, a Maquis. He’d brought him onboard, and he’d killed.

 _Not your fault_ , Tom could have told him, but didn’t. That just didn’t always help.

The shuttle most definitely wasn’t Suder’s fault.

When the first thruster blew, Tom thought, _Shit!_

When the next two blew, his brain started to chant, _Ohnoohnoohnoohno_ —

Numbers four, five, and six; and everything inside his head just fucking shut down; he became a machine. Senses locked into what the shuttle was doing; brain flipping through scenarios; hands flickering over the conn. He knew that Harry Kim was beside him, but it didn’t matter, because they were about to skim the ionosphere of the fucking planet they were supposed to survey, and if Tom didn’t keep it together, they’d be adding some new elements to the planet’s surface.

He angled her nose a little higher, and they bounced, as he’d hoped they would. But the atmospheric drag slowed her a little, and they frankly didn’t have the thrusters to keep her in orbit for long. And then there was the lovely ticklish problem of getting her back onto _Voyager_.

Because—with the remaining thrusters still on full—the conn shut down completely.

Harry was out of his seat in a nanosecond, headed for the processor at the back of the shuttle. Tom fell to his knees to examine the conn panel.

“Nothing wrong here!” Harry shouted.

“Nothing here!” Tom answered. Fuck!

Tom slapped his commbadge, but there was no answer, because the computer just wasn’t there to respond.

The shuttle shook at that exact instant, and Tom felt his heart stop. Even with two thrusters burning, they would sink toward that big hard shuttle-smashing planet far faster than he’d like.

There was another shudder. And,

“Oh, _thank_ you!” Harry said fervently.

Tom raised his head to look out the port.

And saw _Voyager_ , tractor beams on full, holding them steady. Though with the thrusters still firing, bringing them into the shuttle bay would be disastrous.

A crackle on his commbadge. “—to Paris. Are … okay?”

The damned tractor beams interfered with ship-to-commbadge communications at just the worst times.

“Yes!” he said. “But, _Voyager_ , we’ve got a problem—”

Yeah, they fucking did. “Shiiiiit,” Tom breathed, as the second-biggest Kazon warship he’d ever seen glided out from behind the planet’s closest moon.

What happened next he wasn’t in a position to hear. There was probably an exchange, and it probably went along the lines of Janeway saying, “Back off,” and the Kazon captain replying, “Make me.” It wouldn’t be a fucking equal contest, because _Voyager_ couldn’t raise shields while the tractor beam was in use, and they were too far away for her to enclose them in her shields. So it was bye-bye _Voyager_ or bye-bye Shuttle _Ibn Batuta_ , and Tom knew which one made more sense.

 _Chakotay_ , he thought. _Chakotay_. It seemed all he _could_ think.

He knew that Harry was making his own peace with the universe—

Then _Voyager_ was coming at them at full impulse; and the two photon torpedoes she spat out seemed just an afterthought.

But they did the job on the Kazon cruiser—wham _whomp_ —the first puncturing her shields, and the second punching a hole right through her midsection. There was a second or two when it wasn’t clear that the cruiser was even hurt.

Then a flower of fire seemed to bloom inside the ship, and out spewed flame and ship plating in all directions—

—and _Voyager_ was right over the shuttle; he almost felt her shields extending around them, holding them in a protective embrace, which was good, because—

—the shock wave hit them and everything went haywire for an eternity or two they were rolled even inside the shield everything flying and Harry crying out and something thumping him pretty damned hard on the shoulder—

It was a shaky minute before Tom realized he was in one piece. And Harry. And the shuttle. And— He slapped his commbadge.

“Paris to _Voyager!_ ”

“Good to … voice, Tom.” Chakotay. Fuck—Chakotay was all right. He could have sobbed in his relief.

Not that they were out of the woods yet. The fucking thrusters were still at work. And where there was one Kazon cruiser, there usually were two or three.

“I’ve got to disconnect the power cells,” Tom told Harry.

“Let me.” Harry was fast, and Harry was adamant. He had the panel open over the cells before Tom could stop him.

“I’m the pilot; it’s _my_ job,” Tom said, elbowing him out of the way.

“You get the next ones.” And Harry had his hand on the power cell unit before Tom could stop him.

He jerked.

A sudden crackle and a flash, and both of them were flung wide. Tom blinked, shook his head free of cobwebs, scrambled over to Harry.

Who wasn’t breathing.

Tom’s hands were working even before his brain caught up, pumping that still chest. He cocked the head back, blew air into Harry’s lungs. Pump; blow. Pump; blow; pump—

Harry choked, sprayed vomit, coughed. Automatically, Tom turned him on his side, crooning encouragement, slamming him unmedically on the back to make sure everything cleared. He barely noticed when the shuttle thumped gently onto the deck of the main shuttle bay.

It was after they’d rushed Harry off to sickbay that Tom suddenly started to shake. Fucking almost happened again fucking almost killed— Tom’s legs failed him, and he leaned against the shuttle. —Harry almost killed Harry—

Distantly, he heard thumping over and over and over—somebody hitting something hard again and again—hitting something unyielding—

Then Chakotay was there; he could smell that warm skin; Chakotay right next to him.

And it was Tom’s fist hitting the side of the shuttle, Tom’s arm jolted from the thumping. Somebody was trying to stop him, but Chakotay interfered; there was a small altercation.

And then Tom found he could stop. Chakotay just put his hand on Tom’s cheek, and Tom stopped.

The next thing he knew, he was in sickbay, and the Doctor was being sarcastic over his broken hand.

“Don’t,” Chakotay said; and the Doctor shut up.

Harry was okay; Tom could see the monitor from here. Asleep, and some of the readings looked a little wrong, but okay. Eventually. Kes was beside him. She was really wonderful in sickbay, and Harry would be all right.

Torres stomped in then, crackling so much fury they could have run the ship off her rage for at least a couple weeks.

“ _Sa_ botage!” she spat out to Chakotay. “Somebody _sa_ botaged the shuttle! Almost killed—”

And to Tom’s astonishment, her face started to crumple. She marched over the Harry’s biobed, swept Kes right out of the way. She glared at the monitors, at Harry Kim.

“ _Damn_ it, Starfleet!” she said.

Suddenly Tom felt giddy. So tired he could barely stay upright. Chakotay’s strong hands were on him; he leaned into that warm body and closed his eyes. Chakotay stroked his neck.

“Hmmm,” said the Doctor. “Perhaps there’s a paper here on the narcotic effects of sexual—”

“I can do that, Doctor,” Kes said hastily. “Perhaps you should see to Ensign Kim.”

Tom felt the rumble of Chakotay’s repressed laughter. “Somebody ought to reprogram his bedside manner,” he said softly.

“I _heard_ that!”

“And his hearing,” Chakotay whispered.

It actually took no time at all to find out who’d done it; apparently, once Torres was properly pissed off, all kinds of things could happen. Later, Tom wasn’t sure what set her off: Harry getting hurt—though she was right back to standoffish the instant he could leave sickbay—or one of her precious shuttles being damaged. Whatever it was, it inspired her: she tore right through every log, every sensor reading, and swept the others along like some gravitational tsunami.

By the time Tom woke and stumbled out of sickbay, the only possible suspect was in the brig.

Seska.

He didn’t know if it was a surprise or not; he hadn’t thought about her much except to note that she _reeeeally_ didn’t like him with Chakotay. The hate in her eyes was almost palpable when Tom found Chakotay and Janeway questioning her in the brig. Jealous. Chakotay’s gaze at her was stony, but under it was a hint of absolute loathing. Another of his friends murdering among the crew; and this one turned out to have been trying to leave the remains of a nice little shuttle for her new friends, the Kazon, to pick over. Tom’s death would have been a nice little bonus for her.

“You two are off duty,” Janeway said firmly. She and Chakotay shared a glance: respect and sympathy and determination. In that instant, it was hard to believe that either had been ready to kill the other just a few months ago.

Tension just radiated from Chakotay as he and Tom went to Chakotay’s quarters.

“How’s Kim?” he asked.

“He’ll be fine. If Torres bouncing off the walls in sickbay doesn’t kill him.”

Chakotay smiled. “She gets intense,” he said. “When it’s somebody she cares about, she—gets intense.”

Chakotay got a little intense, himself, once they were at his quarters, bossing Tom into eating, into showering, into bed. Where he couldn’t seem to leave Tom alone—touching, examining. It was like having a second physical.

“I’m _okay_ ,” Tom protested. “Really!”

And the look Chakotay gave him then: half tenderness, half agony. Tom pulled him close; and ahgod, the rest of that sweet night….

He woke before Chakotay did and watched him sleep for a muzzy moment and then thought very clearly, _Oh, shit—that was NOT supposed to happen_. And what the hell was he supposed to do now? Tell Chakotay?

Then Chakotay’s eyes opened, and they looked at each other for a long moment.

“When did I fall in love with you?” Chakotay asked conversationally.

Tom felt his heart skip a couple thousand beats. Okay, so the big lug got it in first. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said more lightly than he felt. “I just woke up one day, and there I was—head over heels in love. With you,” he finished a little shakily.

A smile touched Chakotay’s soft mouth. Tom grinned at him. If the computer hadn’t reminded them at that exact second that they were due on duty in thirty minutes, who knows what would have happened?

As it was, as Tom dressed, behind him, Chakotay cleared his throat and said in a tiny, shaky voice, “So, you want to just move in here, or should we get married first?”

Tom swiveled his head around so fast his ears nearly flew off. _Married? HIM?!?_

——

It was a really great wedding—everybody seemed to think so. The captain looked proud and a little misty-eyed as she presided; Harry Kim practically smiled himself right in half. Torres was a little quiet, but she came around about the time the level in the punch bowl dropped halfway. Even Tuvok’s right eyebrow hinted that he was having a reasonably good time.

Neelix outdid himself: the cake was gaudy and bizarre and just about inedible. _Welcome to the Delta Quadrant wedding_ , Tom thought, trying to decide which of the little figures on top was supposed to be him and which was supposed to be Chakotay—or maybe they were both Neelix’s impression of Starfleet Kazons. Tom wasn’t really sure.

What he was sure about was that he had to be sick or something: clammy hands, and his stomach wasn’t really doing that well, and breathing—something wrong with the oxygen mix. As the service progressed, he had the increasingly overwhelming sense that everything was closing in all around him. He grabbed Chakotay’s hand at some point in the ceremony, and there was a ripple of amusement around him; but couldn’t they all see how sick he was?

“ _Breathe_ , Tom,” Chakotay murmured; and breathing helped a little.

After the ceremony, he started to feel a little better. The ring was uncomfortable, though: it was heavy and kept getting in his way, and he felt like he was about to clonk himself with it every time he raised his left hand. And time wasn’t moving right: it kept surging forward and hanging back. Some sort of time distort. Temporal anomaly, or something, though nobody else seemed to notice.

Finally, he and Chakotay left the party under a barrage of confetti.

“This ritual once was believed to increase the fertility of the newly married couple,” Tuvok said loudly to no one in particular, which indicated that maybe he’d been at the punch a little often. That he immediately pitched his handful of confetti into the side of Chakotay’s face proved it.

They were going to be cleaning confetti out of the carpet for weeks, Tom realized when they got to their quarters. Every time he or Chakotay _moved_ , it seemed to swirl around them like a little snowstorm.

“You want a shower?” Chakotay said.

By which he must have meant, “by yourself,” because he didn’t come in to share it, which was okay because Tom felt a lot better after those minutes by himself and that really hot shower. But his heart was jumping. It was stupid: he wasn’t any damn virgin, especially not with Chakotay. This, though, was for keeps. And, boy, the guy reflected in the mirror looked really scared.

When Tom stepped into the bedroom, Chakotay was sitting on a corner of the bed, naked. He didn’t look like the commander, sitting there; he didn’t look like the arrogant Maquis captain. He just looked like a man, staring down at his wedding ring, about as uncertain as a guy could get.

Tom walked over, put his left hand on Chakotay’s. For an moment, they stared down at the two rings.

Then Chakotay looked up at him, and Tom saw the smile come into his eyes. And he slid his hand down Chakotay’s face; and bent; and kissed the sweet mouth; and Chakotay pulled him down onto the bed.

A wonderfully long time later, Chakotay laughed somewhere among the ravished sheets and drawled, “Well, no backing out now. We’re officially consummated.”

Tom laughed, too languid to move. “Yeah,” he said; “they probably noticed that in the Alpha Quadrant.”

That delicious laugh again; and Chakotay was pawing through the bedclothes, searching for him. The hand grabbed Tom’s thigh, fingered it. Found his hand. Their rings clicked as their fingers intertwined.

A minute.

“Any regrets?” Tom asked.

A tightening of Chakotay’s fingers; then he shifted and suddenly was grinning down at Tom.

“Just,” he said, “that we didn’t do this the day after I came aboard.”

——

It could have been weird, being married to the commander. Things at home could have spilled over onto the bridge, and vice versa, but for some reason every time they threatened to, Tom found he could stop it: stop the smart remark, stop the insubordinate grin. It had something to do with not looking like an ass in front of Chakoty—or not letting him look like an ass in front of everybody else. Something like that; maybe those lessons in leadership they taught at the Academy should include fucking your junior officers into adoration.

And, for Chakotay’s part, he seemed to be working on things, too. He was such a—well— _commanding_ guy on the bridge, it would have been natural for him to stay the commander at home, too. And, once in a while he did get pretty damned bossy. But, for the most part, when they were alone together, to Tom Chakotay was just the guy Tom was in love with: the guy who ate more damn mushrooms than should have been healthy, the guy who had a hissy when Tom left his unwashed socks on the floor, the guy who’d gotten a really bad surprise when the Doctor did some blood work on Seska, the guy who gave the best fucking neck rubs in two Quadrants Tom knew of, the guy who sometimes cheated at cards. The guy Tom had somehow wrapped his soul and his life and his whole existence around.

The guy whose ass was just too fucking choice to leave alone even after they’d been an old married couple for two whole months. Tom watched him dress, which was an unbelievably sexy act; Chakotay looked really great in that uniform. Chakotay was nattering on about something—whatever it was he had to do that day. Meetings. Whatever.

Tom could come up with other things to occupy that carefully trained mind. Just as they were about to leave, he grabbed Chakotay and planted one on him: soft and thorough. Slid his hand over the bulge at Chakotay’s crotch, fingering, teasing.

When they broke the kiss, Chakotay was breathless and his color was high. “ _Shit_ , Tom. I _do_ have to think about other things than you and that bed and—”

Tom nipped his earlobe. His hands hadn’t left Chakotay’s crotch. “ _Think_ about ’em,” he groaned into Chakotay’s ear. “Think about ’em alllll day. Think about it _all_ , allllll daaaaay lonnnnng. You know how great you are when you’ve been thinking about it for _hourssss_ ….”

Chakotay growled and pushed Tom’s hand away and then kissed him hard. Gave him a grin that was half exasperated glare. “Great,” he said. “Give me a fucking hard-on and then make me sit there and watch the back of your neck for the rest of the day.” The grin got sly. “I may just have to call you into my office and give you a little private counseling.”

“Your desk,” Tom breathed. Fuck, _yesssss_.

They grinned at each other. The all-day foreplay was starting off just fine.

Kept going, too. A quick brush of hands as they passed in a corridor; a significant glance across the mess. Stupid and juvenile, and Tom enjoyed it immensely. Playful. It was fun.

Of course, something could always mess things up. In this case one of those unexpected bonuses of the Delta Quadrant: the previously unknown astronomical phenomenon, which in this case was— Well, nobody quite knew. Drifting somethings. A whole flock. Little black holes. Energy anomalies. Pockets of negative energy. Something like that. Just drifting around, waiting for _Voyager_ to plow right into them.

They full-reversed like mad, but, shit—the damn things—whatever they were—punched right through the shields—shorted out the shields—and—

“Hull breach, deck nine!” Harry shouted through the chaos. “Hull breach, deck six!”

And then Tom blocked him, because Harry wasn’t the captain or Chakotay, wasn’t giving the orders, wasn’t even saying anything Tom needed to know, though every breach was like a knife blade slicing through his own skin. In that instant, Tom himself went away; he became what he was to the core: the conduit between the captain and her ship. Janeway’s commands took reality as his fingers flickered across the conn; the ship spoke to her through Tom’s observations.

And, out of there, they were finally out of there, in open space, blessedly clear of those whatever anomalies which probably somebody in astrophysics was having full-blown orgasms over, but _damn_ , what they’d done to _Voyager_.

Hull breaches and half of everything offline. The stink of frying circuitry. Crew members in agony, covered in blood. Charred flesh from overloads. Tom helped for a while in sickbay, until the worst of it was over and the Doctor waved him off irritatedly.

Torres was about as irritated, but he could ignore her; his hands knew the ship, knew what she needed, knew how to heal her, so Torres’ orders and advice just became part of the background noise.

Chakotay came past, looking damn tired, and Torres went after him, clucking a mile a minute about her precious Jeffries Tube 13, which was practically all they had left to do, everything else was just about taken care of, though was Tom always this stubborn; because she’d just about _had_ it with him—

Chakotay looked back and grinned at Tom—a _wait till I get you home_ grin. _Wait till I get you home_ sparked some focus-destroying thoughts. Jeffries Tube 13. Maybe Chakotay could use some help—

They were just crawling in when Tom sauntered by: Chakotay and then Ensign Baytart. Torres gave Tom a look that kept him sauntering. Chakotay probably had all the help he needed, and that hot body right next to Tom’s while they worked would just melt every brain cell he had, so fixing Jeffries Tube 13 would take twice as long as necessary. Tom could keep up the all-day foreplay in his mind: jump Chakotay on the way out of the Jeffries Tube and give him a little taste of things to come. Tom grinned. Things to _coooommmme_. Oh, yeah.

So he went to help Harry Kim in the main shuttle bay, where one of those drifting whatevers had sparked a little cascade event in panel 19. It was basically a lot of mindless testing and replacing and retesting, so Harry took the chance to wax poetic about Megan Delaney. Tom listened sort of and made sort of appropriate noises, and tried to figure out how it was possible that Harry Kim managed to fall into lust-infatuation-adoration with just about every inappropriate love object in the Delta Quadrant. Was he like this in the Alpha Quadrant?

The Doctor’s voice on Tom’s commbadge was almost a relief. Except there was something about the tone—

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident.” Every word was calm and just a little kind. “Commander Chakotay—”

And Tom was running before the rest of that sentence came through: everything just switched off then except running and the need for speed. Hearing. All he could hear was his own breathing—far away—and his own distant voice saying, “Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry,” as he charged past humanoid shapes. Though—shit—he could also hear, very clearly, the Doctor’s voice: _Commander Chakotay_. Still hear it, though the Doctor had quit speaking.

Nightmare run, like those nightmares where nothing’s exactly clear and you’re running through some sort of labyrinth. _Commander Chakotay_.

And— Sickbay. In sickbay, where the air was heavy with the smell of blood and burning. There were dim figures there, something like voices, saying his name, but—

Chakotay.

The only one he saw was Chakotay, lying on one of the beds, lying very still on one of the beds. Covered to the chin with a blanket. Oh, god, he looked—

Someone took Tom by the arm. He spared a glance. The Doctor. That’s right; that’s who it was: the Doctor. With a look on his face that—

“There’s a lot of damage.” Every word out of the Doctor’s holographic mouth was precise and clear and said very gently.

“And you can—” Except something in the gaze ended that sentence for him.

Tom stared.

“I’m sorry.” There was just enough inflection to make it plausible, make it seem that the Doctor was a real person really sorry.

Tom jerked away, stumbled for the bed where Chakotay lay. The Doctor receded into that vague distance.

Chakotay was breathing. But his face—oh, god, he would never look the same again, not that that mattered; it simply didn’t matter what the hell he looked like; he would always be Chakotay.

Tom reached out, took Chakotay’s hand. Felt the struggle for breath. What the hell was the Doctor thinking? Why wasn’t he bustling around over here, piecing together, mending—he wasn’t— Oh, god, oh _god_.

Chakotay’s hand tightened a fraction. The eye on the good side of his face drifted open.

Tom felt himself breathe again. He moved into Chakotay’s gaze. Saw warmth touch the dark eyes.

Forced himself to smile, clutching that big, warm hand. Heart caught at the struggle of Chakotay’s chest to rise. A sound in Chakotay’s lungs as the shallow breath rattled through them, and something deep inside Tom began to howl.

Chakotay’s other hand shifted blindly on the blanket, plucking uselessly at its light weight over his chest.

Tom bent, felt his mouth twist into a crooked grin. “Some people,” Tom said, “some people will do anything to get everybody to fuss over them.”

A smile moved into Chakotay’s eyes. “Tom,” he breathed.

And that was all.

A moment of blankness. If he didn’t move, it would not have happened, Chakotay would draw another breath; if he didn’t move, that last second when Chakotay’s heart beat would not be over.

But, to breathe is to move….

**And, somewhere else in the universe, a pouty Q grumbles about bald Starfleet captains oblivious to the charms of omnipotent beings, and stealthily folds time back several minutes, to make another try. And— _triomphe!_ **

Chakotay looked back and grinned at Tom—a _wait till I get you home_ grin. _Wait till I get you home_ sparked some focus-destroying thoughts. Jeffries Tube 13. Maybe Chakotay could use some help—

They were just crawling in when Tom sauntered by: Chakotay and then Ensign Baytart. Torres gave Tom a look that should have kept him sauntering. Chakotay probably had all the help he needed, and that hot body right next to Tom’s while they worked would just melt every brain cell he had, so fixing Jeffries Tube 13 would take twice as long as necessary. But, shit.

“Hey,” Tom said to Baytart. “I can—”

“We don’t _need_ you, Tom,” Torres said. “Ensign Baytart can help the Commander. Why don’t you go help Kim in the main shuttle bay?”

“Come on.” He gave her a grin—the one that sometimes melted stubborn people to putty.

It didn’t work on half-Klingons. “ _We don’t NEED you, Paris!_ Go help Kim!”

“ _Lieutenant!_ ” Chakotay, glaring at them both, having crawled back to the mouth of the Jeffries Tube.

“Okay!” Though why the hell he didn’t want Tom to help him—why the hell Tom had to stand there and watch Baytart crawl in obediently after Chakotay—

He glared at Torres as he turned and—

The fucking explosion probably wasn’t as loud as it sounded. Tom realized what it was in the instant between two heartbeats, dove for the Tube in the instant between two breaths. Smoke and and the smell of blown circuitry and an awful stench of charred meat—

And fucking Baytart in the way, damn it. Tom grabbed his feet, hauled. The ensign protested that he was coming out, he could come out on his own, damn it! but that really wasn’t why Tom was dragging him out. Chakotay—

Who was pushing himself backward, one hand to his head as if to hold it on. Tom grabbed him, hauled. Hauled. Hauled—

“I’m okay.” Chakotay’s voice was thick. “I’m _okay_ , Tom. I’m—”

Tom looked. Shit—Chakotay _wasn’t_ fucking okay. Skin blistered and blackened on the side of his head, his cheek raw. That shoulder— Tom swallowed hard. All the skin gone from that shoulder. Nothing there but carbon—

“I’m okay.” Chakotay had a hand on Tom’s face. “I wasn’t— It was worse farther on. I’m okay. I wasn’t that far in. I’m all right.”

“ _Help_ me!” Some humanoid shapes appeared out the blur around him and helped him with Chakotay, who seemed for some reason more worried about Tom than about himself.

Their progress through the corridors was one of those nightmares where nothing’s exactly clear and you’re stumbling through some sort of labyrinth. The only clear thing was that solid body leaning on him and the godawful smell of Chakotay’s charred flesh. And, “I’m okay.” Whispered. The brush of blunt fingers on his cheek.

And— Sickbay. In sickbay, where the fucking Doctor strolled out of his office like they were there for some sort of inspection.

“Hmm,” he said when he saw Chakotay. Like he was a question in an anatomy exam.

Tom and the others got Chakotay to the examining bed. Chakotay was a color Tom had never seen before and didn’t want to see again. His head lolled.

And the damned Doctor—

Staring at his tricorder, instead of at the patient. Frowning at Chakotay’s wounds, like they weren’t the kind they should be. Standing there.

He finally reached for a hypospray, which Tom handed to him, to speed things up. The Doctor got his huffy face.

Chakotay roused at the hypo. His eyes drifted open. His face twisted with pain—

“No!” The Doctor grabbed the pain medication right out of Tom’s hand. Got the huffy face again. “Lieutenant Paris, there is a _reason_ doctors don’t operate on their loved ones— _go_.”

Except he wasn’t a doctor; he was a med tech. And he knew a thing or two about the Doctor, about his methods; he knew what the Doctor would go for next, what he would do after that, and Tom would be a lot of help anticipating his every—

“ _Lieutenant Paris!_ ”

So Tom stepped back, stepped out of the way, though he hadn’t been in the way to begin with, since mygod the Doctor needed an assistant, didn’t he? he was always complaining about that, about not having any—

Chakotay held out his good hand, winced under the Doctor’s ministrations; so Tom darted over to the opposite side of the bed, grabbed the hand, held onto it. The Doctor cast a withering look across at him, but said nothing as it became very clear that Chakotay was relaxing. Tom glowered at the Doctor, clutched Chakotay’s strong hand between both of his. Chakotay’s grip, tighter when—shit, who’d programmed the ham-handed sonofabitch? Didn’t they realize he was a doctor, not a ditch digger? Tom held on as if his life depended on it.

Then, finally, the Doctor was done; and that awful charred smell had just about faded. “You should rest,” he said, in the resigned peevishness that meant he knew nobody was going to listen to him.

Sure enough, Chakotay struggled to sit up.

“ _You_ should _rest_ ,” the Doctor said again.

“I’ll need a new shirt—” Chakotay was saying to Tom, but then he stopped and looked at him. Tom looked right back.

Chakotay paused, and looked a little apprehensive, and then paused; and then he lay back down.

Tom leaned down and kissed him, gave him another look. Chakotay’s mouth quirked, and he closed his eyes. When Tom straightened from pulling the light blanket over Chakotay’s shoulders, the Doctor was looking at him, eyebrows hovering somewhere in the vicinity of his nonexistent hairline. _What?_

Chakoty slept the rest of that afternoon, not that Tom sat around watching him. Well, not the whole time. In the beginning, yeah, because for some reason his legs suddenly seemed to realize what had almost happened and got all shaky about it; and Tom had to sit until his legs realized that everything was okay.

He buried his face in his shaking hands. Things had almost not been okay. Mygod, things had very nearly _not_ been— He let it wash through him, flood all the way through him, finally trickle out through his hands and his feet. Yes. Almost not okay, but—but it was okay now; it was— He watched the sweetstubbornsonofabitch sleep, through eyes suddenly misty with tenderness. Damn.

He got up and found that his hands weren’t shaking any more, and went off and helped sort things out in damn Jeffries Tube 13.

Then, in the evening, he went back to sickbay, where Chakotay had just wakened. He was propped on his elbows, face all creased from resting on something wrinkled, with that grumpy frown he always got when he thought he shouldn’t have been sleeping. Big grumpy bear.

Tom went over and tousled his hair, which the big grumpy bear never liked, but let Tom get away with. Chakotay grinned up at him sort of lopsidedly—the grump knowing he was being a grump and a little sheepish about it. He sat up, and Tom’s arms went around him automatically.

They were that way for a minute, Tom nuzzling Chakotay’s cheek. He smelled wonderfully of sleep and of warm Chakotay, and Tom found himself smiling.

“I’m okay,” Chakotay murmured.

 _I know_ , Tom thought; but he didn’t say it. Instead, he let his hands and lips say it for him, caressing the smooth face.

“I’m sorry,” Chakotay murmured. Tom looked at him. He seemed contrite. “Do I get that look on my face when you get hurt?”

What look was that? “Probably.”

“I’m sorry,” Chakotay said again. His fingertips just brushed Tom’s face. “Got everything shipshape?”

“Yeah.” Funny conversation to be feeling all dopey and soppy about. “Even with you in sickbay. Imagine that.”

“I hate sleeping all day,” Chakotay said.

“I know.” Tom grinned at him, knowing the answer to what he was about to ask. “Why did you?”

Chakotay’s grin was sly. “You gave me that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says, ‘Cross me, and I’ll take you home and wallop you.’ ”

Tom grinned at him, leaned in. “I’m taking you home _now_ ,” he said huskily.

Chakotay slid his fingers up the back of Tom’s neck and pulled his head down for a lazy kiss with a lot of promises in it. ”We could do the walloping part, too,” he whispered into Tom’s ear, ”if you want.”

Tom laughed.

So they went home, where there was no walloping. Instead, Chakotay took a shower. Then Tom fed him and then Tom fucked him, tenderly and thoroughly, gazing down into the avid face until Chakotay clutched the sheet and cried out words and bits of words, and bucked in orgasm; then Tom rode that orgasm into his own, almost as an afterthought.

“Shit,” Chakotay panted. “I just showered.”

Tom laughed. “Yeah. But now you smell so—” He trailed his fingers over Chakotay’s cheek.

They lay like that, in that comfortable after-fuck glow that slowed things down so that Tom could enjoy them.

“I’m sorry,” Chakotay said again.

 _Huh?_ “About what?”

“About— You just get this _anxious_ look.” Chakotay brushed his fingers across Tom’s forehead, along his mouth.

“You getting hurt makes me kind of … anxious.” His voice wasn’t shaking as much as it wanted to. “There’s so damn much that can go wrong. A phaser bolt hits one millimeter to the wrong side. If you’d been farther in that Jeffries Tube when that conduit blew….”

Chakotay stopped his babbling with a kiss. Tom grabbed him, held on.

“It’s all right,” Chakotay whispered in his ear. “The universe can be damned arbitrary. And I don’t have to tell _you_ that every possibility branches off into yet another universe.”

Tom breathed in the heady scent of sex and Chakotay, and felt himself start to relax. Chakotay. At the center of every possibility was Chakotay.

“But I love you,” Chakotay went on. “In every possible universe, I love you.” He grinned down at Tom. “None of the physicists have figured it out yet, but that’s what’s holding all those universes together.”

Tom laughed up at him. Damn right.

**Chakotay grinned at him. “Come on,” he said, “don’t you think a slightly bossy Starfleet commander and a smart-ass lieutenant can make it work in this universe or any other that’s out there?”**

And, “Not a chance,” Tom lied, grinning right back.


End file.
